I need to tell you a secret.
It is of the utmost importance--
I can sense that you will understand completely.
There is something leeching out of me.
I cannot tell my family,
and I don’t think they have noticed yet.
They will only make fun of me more
than they already do. They call me Dory,
like the little blue fish in Finding Nemo.
The way something shiny distracts me from my tasks
and I veer off course without looking back
forgetting all about the wet laundry laying on the hardwood floor,
or the half-eaten meal
cold on the counter hours later,
or the car running, door open
and me tearing break-neck down the block
chasing the doe who stumbled
into our suburban neighborhood unannounced.
I am simply making sure the police don’t succeed
in using their tasers to stun her.
I know what that feels like, and it isn’t pleasant.
But anyway, I have deviated too far from the subject at hand
(surely more proof of the pudding).
Let me get back to this substance
that seems to be oozing out of me.
I first noticed it seeping from my scar,
which is the very reason I know you will understand me.
I believe our scars have fallen in love.
It is not clear how they met, but I have been told
they are planning an exorbitant wedding
and are contemplating naming their firstborn Moe,
which I think is an imbecilic idea.
But we have plenty of time to convince them of that.
My scar is S shaped and about six inches long.
It is a bluish-gray color, swollen and dimpled.
I try to avoid looking at it
because it reminds me of a caterpillar crawling
along my belly. I am sure at any moment
it will pop its furry head
out of my collar to tickle my chin.
I swear I’ll bite its head off when it does.
Anyway, again I digress. This green and viscous secretion,
which at first was just a trickle
around the edges of my scar,
is now beginning to gush
soaking my clothes so that I have to change them
several times a day,
not just my shirt but my underpants and sometimes even my socks
when it has begun to pool
in my favorite black boots,
the ones I got at Kmart with a coupon.
I am hoping that due, in part, to the impending nuptials
and the possibility we will be grandparents soon,
you might consider having a word with
that tiny white X on your chest, the one
right above your heart,
to see if you can find out what is causing this mysterious flow.
I am trying to contain it as long as I can
so my family won’t recognize my discomfort or even notice
the witch is back.
She is not riding her broom this time, but her cauldron
is full of hot sauce and something that looks suspiciously
like a cat with only two legs and one ear.
I am convinced you understand my fears and will do your best
to help me in my finest hour of need.
Or at the very least, maybe you can write a play
about our scars
and their fairytale beginning.